My Holiday Musical
by Roga
Summary: You think you've gotten used to Sacred Heart Hospital, but in the end, Christmas is always just a little bit crazier than you expected. Complete with brainwashing, poultry, musical numbers, and not quite crossover guest stars.
1. Chapter 1 of 2

**Notes:** Thank you Maestro for kicking this baby into shape, and Sanj for looking it over as well; this was written for Kangeiko for the Yuletide 2006 challenge.

**My Holiday Musical (1/2)**

_Sometimes I think..._

"The chickens! The chickens! Somebody catch the goddamned chickens!"

_Sometimes, I think—_

"Bambi, either put on the suit, or get out of my way!"

_Sometimes I think that Sacred Heart Hospital is not an entirely sane place to be._

"Who the _hell_ put a _stuffed dog on my desk? Dorian!_"

"Dorian!"

"_DORIAN!_"

_Most of the time, though, I'm sure of it._

* * *

_Of course, it's not only in hospitals that Christmas-time marks a sharp increase in the craziness factor, but actually a worldwide phenomenon ("worldwide" in this case meaning "The United States of America".)_

_And yet, the sheer amount of people who seem to converge at the hospital when Santa fever begins is overwhelming even on the lightest of days. It's almost like some old Greek god has decided to crush planet Earth like a huge terrestrial orange, squeezing all the madness through a funnel that channels it into Sacred Heart's Admissions lobby. I... don't know why any ancient Greek god would do that. There are probably less misadoctoric ways of relieving boredom if you are a god, like counting mountaintops or seducing nymphs, or maybe directing a musical._

"Hey, Meredith," Dr. Cox popped out of nowhere, interrupting my thoughts. "I know McDreamy's, like, totally all that, but please note that if you impaled all the people waiting here on a pole you would in fact have a shish kebab the size of Texas. Now, you're welcome to try doing that, as it will certainly help dispose of them faster, but if you find yourself a little squeamish at the prospect of human-spearing I suggest you pick yourself a patient and _treat them now_."

His eyes did that thing where you instinctively want to fling your hands out to catch them, just in case they finally popped out.

"Aha, I wasn't thinking about McDreamy," I offered.

It was like his stare was boring a hole through my pupils and into my brain, and oh my god, my brain was on fire. "Scary man in a purple skirt!" I cried desperately, beckoning to the first patient I saw. Dr. Cox span with a grunt and stalked off, leaving me with the professional wrestler oddly clad in a fluffy tutu. "Follow me please, Mr..." I checked his chart. "Hulk."

* * *

_As the day progressed, I had a strange feeling something was going to happen. Something dramatic that would cause upheaval in our lives and be resolved just in time for Christmas. Maybe I would meet three ghosts ("I am the ghost of Christmas past," Elliot would say. "Do you think this black robe makes me look fat?"; "Ghost of Christmas Present in the house, y'all!" Turk would swing in on a string of colored lights, flipping in the air and landing on his feet. "What? No applause?"; "I am the ghost of Christmas Future," Dr. Cox would grind out. "Do you... think... this black... robe... makes me look fat?"). Maybe I would discover what the world would have been like had I not been born (dozens of happy, sparkling, cured patients fill the hospital corridors; pharmacy shelves are stacked with anti-cancer and anti-AIDS pills; Dr. Kelso is strumming his guitar in front of an enchanted, cheering staff. "And that," explains Angel Cox smugly, "is why the world would have been far better off without you." A tiny splash is heard when I hit the water.)_

_What actually happened was far, far stranger._

"Is that a duck?" Elliot asked.

"Might be," I replied. "I'm not used to seeing ducks without delicious orange sauce and a side of mashed potatoes. Mmm..." I shook myself out of the duck-a-la-yum fantasy. "But yeah, it kinda looks like a duck."

"Hmm," she humfed. "I wonder what a duck is doing in the hospital."

"And I'm sure that wondering is taking up lots and lots of precious space in your teenie-weenie head," Dr. Cox retorted, appearing out of nowhere. He certainly had a gift for it. "But I still see more than fifty patients loitering around here, hey, almost like a bunch of _useless doctors_— so until they're all gone, safely tucked in their beds or their coffins, your wondering will have to wait."

Elliot's mouth gaped just a little. "But Dr. Cox! There's a—a—a _duck!_"

"Well," Dr. Cox picked a pear off the pear tree and took a bite, "in my experience, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and is waddling underneath a pear tree that magically appeared twelve days before Christmas, it's probably a... what?"

"A duck?" she guessed.

Dr. Cox looked like he was about to burst the vein on his forehead, and I really didn't want to get blood sprayed all over my clean scrubs. "It's from that song!" I hissed from the side of my mouth.

"What song?" Elliot hissed back.

"The 'partridge in a pear tree'."

"'Pear tree?'" She frowned. "I always thought it was 'partridge in a pantry'."

It was at this point that Dr. Cox turned to the person closest to him and growled, "oh for the love of Darwin, Muhammad, the carpenter from Bethlehem, my she-devil of an ex-wife or any other deity of your choice, somebody _please_ hit me over the head with a blunt object."

The person closest to him happened to be Turk, who was leaning against the nurses' station ogling Carla, not paying very much attention to anything else, and therefore operating on automatic as he grabbed hold of a desk phone and absently smacked it on top of Dr. Cox's head.

The entire room stood stock still as Dr. Cox, in agonizingly slow motion, crumpled to the ground. You could hear a pin drop if it weren't for the smack his head made against the floor.

"Oh," Turk drew it out nice and long, "...shit."

No one spoke in return. I wanted to cry, imagining the sad music and the flowers and me and Carla, wearing identical lacy black veils, mourning together at the funeral.

"Can somebody please rewind that?" Turk begged nervously. "Like, click on a button and make that not have happened?"

The Greek god probably could.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, "what do we do now?"

"We should... probably take him to a hospital," Elliot said tentatively.

Another moment of stupefied silence, and suddenly the room came to life in a burst of activity, gurneys wheeling and charts flying and nurses juggling random medical apparatus. Elliot and I dived towards the prone body simultaneously. "Shotgun!" she yelled, grabbing Dr. Cox's sweater, but I was way ahead of her, stethoscope already in my ears and on his chest. "Sorry sport, doctor's already handling it," I breathed, listening to his pulse intently, examining his pupils, and helping heave him onto the bed.

* * *

_Two things happened during the twenty-four hours Dr. Cox was unconscious._

_The first was the mysterious appearance of a gilded cage that held two white doves in the middle of Admissions. _

"Hey, look at the little birdies!" Carla cooed when she saw them.

"Shouldn't they be turtles?" Elliot wondered.

"No, I think the song is being metaphorical. I wonder who they're for."

Elliot tilted her head. "Don't you mean who they're _from_?"

"No, girl. Some lucky person here's got a secret admirer! A 'true love' who's sending them all these gifts for Christmas." Carla smiled dreamily. "It's so romantic. I know _somebody_ who can learn from this," she emphasized, raising her voice just as Turk walked by.

Turk slowed down just enough to walk backwards and say, "Woman, I do not have time for this now! Dr. Cox will wake up some time and I have an escape route to plan."

Carla's face darkened, but before she could reply a page was announced on the hospital loudspeakers.

"Doctors Dorian, Reid, Turk, and Nurse Espinosa, please make your way to Dr. Kelso's office. Drs Dorian, Reid, Turk, and Nurse Espinosa, Please make your way to Dr. Kelso's office."

_Which was the other thing that happened. _

Congregating in front of the lion's den, I was the unlucky gladiator involuntarily pushed in first.

Dr. Kelso looked up from his paperwork in disdain. "In, the lot of you!"

The others entered warily, lining up in front of him. His eyes traveled slowly between each of our faces, deadly focused like mutant force rays.

"Well," he growled, "partridges. Turtle doves. I understand you funny folks are trying to turn my hospital into a poultry farm."

I widened my eyes. "Sir, it wasn't us—"

"Quiet!"

I suppressed a whimper.

Kelso narrowed his eyes. "It's _always_ you four, every single time. And with Dr. Cox currently incapacitated and unable to make your lives miserable by being his charming self, it's up to me to make sure you don't cause any more trouble, though I'm not completely sure one can do that without supernatural powers."

Suddenly, his face broke into a wide smile. "We have sick children in this hospital."

What?

"Children with terminal illnesses," he continued sweetly. "Children who won't be celebrating Christmas at home. Children who might not live to celebrate another Christmas, ever."

I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. Oh, the _children_.

"Those children deserve a happy holiday. As of now, you four are in charge of putting on a Christmas play, to make sure all these sad little children are, even if only for a short time, merry."

I was so touched by the faith Dr. Kelso had in us to cure the spirits of the little angels, I didn't even care how absurdly illogical the task was. "We won't let you down, sir," I vowed fiercely.

Three heads whipped towards me with death glares.

"Excellent!" he replied, in that same sugary tone. "You can be in charge. And Dorian? I want elves."

* * *

My mind was spinning with ideas when we left the office. A musical! Directed by moi! Who needed Greek gods anyway?

I started brainstorming aloud, walking through the halls. "Okay, so I'm thinking costumes, Turk, I'm thinking props, Elliot, I'm thinking Santa suit, Carla, and jingle bells and oh, my god! Rudolf noses! So the rage this year. I can play the triangle and two notes on the harmonica, so I'll be the Head Elf, and I'll need two other Happy Helpers with me! Is anybody writing this down?" Turning around, I discovered that apparently, nobody was following me.

"Amateurs," I huffed.

Well, I'd have to deal with them later. More than a few hours had passed since Turk's tragic mistake, and it was time to check up on Dr. Cox.

Now, I know it seems like I absolutely hogged the position of being Dr. Cox's attending physician because I'm seeking his approval. But that's not true.

Well, not _all_ true. If I took good care of him and proved I was an excellent doctor, he wouldn't approve.

He would _totally love me forever and ever and ever._

Ultimately, that's all I ever wanted in life.

Dr. Cox was sharing a room with two coma patients. All in all it offered very little in terms of entertainment for your average vigil-sitting doctor. For a while I made up a game, the point of which was to guess which patient would wheeze next, but it... well, it got old pretty fast.

I tried thinking what could wake up Dr. Cox. I could try dumping a bucket of icy water on his face. Slapping him lightly. Lightly caressing his face. And then there was the Fairy Tale Classic technique of waking people up...

I shook myself out of my reverie. Kiss Dr. Cox? Oh, dear god, _no._ For one, he would kill me. For two, it would probably hurt. A lot. The murder, not the kiss. One would assume.

But now that it had penetrated my mind, the thought wouldn't leave. And… after all... what if my lips held magical wake-upping powers that I never knew about? I'd never actually tried it before. What if I were destined for this? My legs unfolded independently and started carrying me forward, and, mind still on overdrive with musical ideas, I could hear a gentle melody accompanying my steps in the background.

_"Yeah, you see him..." _

It was Turk crooning, except he was a small red lobster with a sexy Jamaican accent, scuttling across the bedrail.

_"Lying there across the cot  
He don' got a lot to say,  
Dat's because he's unconscious"_

Wow, lobster Turk was a good singer. And to the point.

_"An' you know you'll die  
But you're dyin' to try, you wanna  
Kiss da doc..."_

I took another step forward and puckered up my lips, as an entire offstage chorus erupted into song:

_"SHALALALA-LA-LA MY OH—"_

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Dr. Cox cut in irritably.

I jumped three feet in the air. "Gaah!"

Dr. Cox lifted his head from the pillow and winced, setting it back down again. He did not look like the happiest camper.

"Vitals," I blurted, grabbing for the closest explanation. "Yours. Checking. I was."

"Space," he mimicked. "Personal. My. You're standing in. Something or corner the in stand go." It took me a second to comprehend what he said, but apparently a second was too much. "_Shoo!_" he emphasized, trying to sit up again.

I took a step back, then another, just to be safe, and forced a wide smile onto my face. "Dr. Cox, you really shouldn't be getting up so soon, you've just suffered a severe head trauma—"

"Did I say shoo?" Dr. Cox mused. "I'm sorry, I meant _shush_. No, wait, both of them simultaneously would be… very close to heaven on earth." He looked around the room, almost as if he were trying to place himself. That was weird. Dr. Cox spent more than half of his time at the hospital — why wouldn't he recognize where he was?

With a grunt, he lifted himself up to stand, gripping the bedrail to stable himself.

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough to—"

"Shush!" he repeated. I shut up. "Do I have a chart?"

I silently handed it to him. That lovely chart, with Dr. Cox's name and my signature at the bottom. I wondered if I could have it framed.

"Good girl," he murmured, and I felt a momentary swell of pride. He approved of the treatment! Which, okay, mainly consisted of "bed rest until he wakes up", but still.

Dr. Cox rubbed his chin, which had grown a day's stubble, and slapped the chart against my chest. "Well, this looks like I've earned myself at least four sick days, wouldn't you say, Florence? As my doctor, you can notify the big boss. Toodles!"

To my surprise, he started making his way to the door, smiling with satisfaction. And for some reason, he was _limping_.

"Hey, wait!" I followed him. "You can't just leave once you're admitted! You're acting bizarrely. And is something wrong with your leg?"

Not stopping, he threw me a sidelong glance. "Heeey, you could tell that by the limp, couldn't you? What a _shrewd deduction._"

"But there's nothing wrong with your leg!" I protested, trying to keep up. The man was walking _fast_.

"That's what I try telling it too, but it just doesn't listen. I've been thinking of installing an eardrum on my knee."

I dashed in front of him and held up my hands, blocking his path. It was time I put my foot down. "Hey!" I shouted. "Look, you're not acting like yourself. I don't know what's wrong with your leg but I am keeping you here for observation, and that's that. And I'm not writing you any sick notes. And you can't leave against medical advice without signing the form anyway. And... and..." I stumbled for a big finish. "...yeah!"

Dr. Cox stared at me, gaze moving slowly from my face to my outstretched arms and back to my face. My heart quivered in my ribcage.

"Do you..." he said threateningly, "_really_... want to go there?"

I gulped. "Yes?"

He stared at me for another long minute. "Fine," he relented at last. Victory! He drew a pen from his pocket, grabbed my hand and scribbled something on it. "There you go, try not to drool all over it. I'm outta here." Pushing past me, he waddled towards the elevator and before I could blink he was gone.

Dumbfounded and curious, I checked my hand. In untidy black doctor's script, he had scrawled the words: _Discharged AMA, will not sue. Signed: Dr. Gregory House._

Dr. Gregory House?

What the hell?

_There was only one thing I knew for sure: I was probably not going to wash my hand for at least a month._

* * *

_December continued doing its thing where it tripled my caseload by – well, by three, and I was so swamped I didn't see Turk and Carla until that night at the apartment. It was hard convincing them that I wanted to talk about Dr. Cox's strange behavior and not about the Christmas play, a discussion they were trying to avoid at all costs by physically fleeing whenever I came within hearing distance, which basically means, in our apartment, running around in circles between the kitchen and the bedrooms. In the end I resorted to the only way which would get them to listen to me._

"_Ow!_" Turk bellowed. Whoops. My knee may have been a bit too close to his groin.

"Bambi, are you crazy?" Carla yelled, puncturing my right eardrum, I'm sure.

I held fast, sprawled on top of my two friends as they struggled to get loose. "I was just— oof— trying to get your—" damn it, too many body parts— "attention."

"By _pouncing_ on us?" Carla awkwardly twisted her head to look at Turk. "Did you put him up to this? Is this your perverse way of asking me for a threesome?"

Turk's eyes were wide as decorative china plates. "Wh—no! Baby, no! I—JD, tell her!" he ordered with panic.

"Okay, let's everybody take a deep breath and _calm down,_" I suggested rationally. I was pinning them down with a large blanket and my strapping bod, which I was not afraid to use for biting and knee shoving in painful places. "Let's just talk about Dr. Cox for a second."

Carla's eyes softened in a minuscule way. "All right," she said testily. "Talk. What's wrong with Perry?"

Thank you, Carla. "Well, for starters, he doesn't seem to think he's Perry. He thinks he's Dr. Greg House."

Both of them looked confused. "What do you mean, House? Like on TV?" Carla asked.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, relieved that she understood the gravity of the situation.

Turk closed his eyes, thumping his head on the floor. "Oh, God," he groaned. "I hit him and now he thinks he's a TV character. I am so, so dead."

He so, so was.

"Wait a second," Carla said suddenly. "How do you know that's what he thinks?"

"Well," I started counting off, "he's all stubbled, he has a limp, and he told me so?" _Talk to the hand, Carla,_ I thought, sticking my palm in front of her face.

She flinched and slapped it away. Ow. "Well," she said, "he was unconscious for the better part of the day. Did it ever occur to you that maybe he hasn't shaved, he's faking it, and he's messing with your mind?"

She looked at me expectantly. Turk raised his eyebrows. "No," I admitted. "But he... looked like he meant it."

"Listen, I know you care about Dr. Cox, but he's gonna be fine," she reassured me. "He's got a thick skull, and Turk here? Isn't that strong anyway. And before you start, baby—" she warned, just as Turk opened his mouth— "why don't you give your arm a good shake, and let us know when it stops?"

Turk promptly closed his mouth.

"I dunno," I sighed, resting my head on someone's random blanket-covered limb. It hurt to think that he would purposefully fool me like that, but it was starting to make sense. And it was better than the alternative. "Maybe you're right. Yeah, Dr. Cox probably just caught me by surprise. He'll be much better at work tomorrow, after a good night's sleep. Yeah."

"That's it, Bambi," Carla murmured, patting my head.

Ah, it was good to have friends. I was feeling much better about the Dr. Cox incident, and laying on top of the blanket and the world in general felt so comfortably warm and fuzzy.

"Guys?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we sleep like this tonight?"

They dashed to their bedroom so quickly that for a moment I was suspended in the air like Wile E. Coyote on the edge of a cliff, before crashing to the floor.

I've got to get me one of those little "HELP!" signs.

* * *

_Having something as monumental on your mind as being given the responsibility of, essentially, Andrew Lloyd Webber, can really screw with your dreams – by which I mean they will become unusually melodic. But it's all worth it, because you wake up in an oh-so-chipper mood! The next day found me skipping to the hospital, where it seemed everyone was singing. _

"_Smile,_" I crooned at the mother of a three-year-old as I finished her exam, "_though it might be kitschy. Smile,_" I winked at the little girl, "_though your tush is itchy..._"

In the next room, Elliot and a staff of nurses were reviving a patient who'd gone into v-fib. "_One little, two little, three little shocks – CLEAR! Four little, five little, six little shocks – CLEAR! Seven little, eight little, nine little shocks – CLEAR!_" Holding up the defibrillator paddles with satisfaction, "_Heart rhythm back to nor-mal_."

I could even hear the three hens that were waddling in the corridors singing. One of them was clucking:

_"Allons enfants de la Patrie,  
Le jour de gloire est arrive!"_

...in a slightly military manner, while the other two were singing the Mr. and Mrs. Thenardier duet from Les Mis, flaunting their Frenchness in our faces.

Speaking of the Master of the _House_, Dr. Cox hadn't arrived at work yet, and I was beginning to worry that maybe he had actually taken his own sick-day idea seriously after all. I left a note voicing my concerns with Dr. Kelso's favorite minio— um, assistant, confident that she would see to it that Dr. Cox came in.

Sure enough, only two hours later the hospital doors flung open with fury. Dr. Cox was on the warpath.

Like Paul Revere on his mission to warn the unaware, Lawyer Ted and his band of Tedettes scurried ahead to tip us off on his foul mood, except that instead of shouting slogans on horseback they did it in a pleasant, acapella manner:

_"Dum… dadadadada dum… dadada-  
I've got rain clouds on a sunny day  
And when he passes by I wanna say- "oy vey"  
(dadadadada dum... dadadadada-)  
I (I) guess (guess) you (you) say (say)  
What can make me feel this way?  
My Cox! (my Cox! (my Cox!))  
I'm talking 'bout — my Cox  
My Cox!" _

The Teds finished in an impressive falsetto to me clapping enthusiastically, and idily wondering if Ted might _actually_ have two.

My enthusiasm was cut short.

"Well, Allison," I heard a snarl behind me. "You got me into work after all. Congratulations."

I turned around. "Dr. Cox!" I said brightly. "I was simply worried that— okay, I see you haven't had time to shave yet, and why are you carrying that cane?"

He gave me a look that said 'clearly, you're an idiot'.

"Clearly, you're an idiot," he said, thwacking my knee.

"Ow!"

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "Look, I'm gonna be in the lounge. My soap's on in five hours which is just enough time to mentally prepare myself for the drama, so do not bother me unless you find an interesting patient, meaning they're either a three headed midget or a vampire _that nobody else was able to diagnose_, and I cannot stress that part enough, please don't bother me with 'House, there's a midget here who's seeing triple, we think he has three heads, could you come take a look?' and I'll come and say 'well, yes, it appears he has three heads' end-of-diagnosis and I'll miss the part where Liz finds Ric with Lucky which I've been waiting for for _ages_. Do I make myself clear?"

Not waiting for a response, he scuttled away.

I have to admit; I was scared.

"No, big guy," I reassured myself. "Vampires aren't real."

Gathering myself, I knew that it was time to act. I blew my rape whistle and yelled. "EMERGENCY MUSICAL STAFF MEETING IN THE CAFETERIA! EMERGENCY MUSICAL STAFF MEETING IN THE CAFETERIA!"

It occurred to me that maybe paging them would have been the more subtle move, and also, people wouldn't be looking at me strangely.

In the cafeteria I was met by a pissed off Elliot, a sour looking Turk, and a distressed Carla. "We have a problem," I announced.

"You're right," Turk agreed immediately. "Right now the problem is me getting kicked out of surgery because, according to Dr. Wen, Dr. Kelso's orders are that the _children_ are now my first priority. So this emergency better be quick enough for me to get back in time to touch that grandma's innards because otherwise, my friend, you owe me a 96-year-old pancreas."

"Lay off him," Carla said wearily, rubbing her forehead. "He was right about Perry. There's something wrong."

Elliot jumped in, outraged. "I should say there is! Do you know what he said when I started explaining the consult I asked him for? He said 'it's hard concentrating on your breasts when you speak so fast'!"

Carla sighed. "He told me white scrubs would look so much better on me when I won the wet scrubshirt contest he was planning for the holidays."

"He what?" Turk exclaimed, while I tried not to be offended that Dr. Cox hadn't commented about _my_ breasts at all.

"Okay, here's the thing," I stated. "Dr. Cox still thinks he's House. His brain must have jiggled too much in his skull when Turk hit him."

"Thank you for that medical explanation, doctor," Carla remarked dryly.

I ignored her. "In any case, our best bet is to hit him on the head again. Any volunteers?"

All three of them stared at me, and I was creepily reminded of a three-headed oversized midget.

"You're out of your mind," Elliot pointed out.

I pulled out my trump card in a sing-song voice. "Last one to offer gets to be Mrs. Claus in my production."

"I'll do it," Turk said immediately, looking like he wanted to kill me. I wasn't scared; our friendship would persevere, unless Dr. Couse actually did kill him.

"Great!" I smiled. "Rehearsal's tonight after dinner, class dismissed."

_We went our separate ways, and I looked forward to meeting Dr. Cox's regularly-but-not-overly cranky self after he was knocked out by Turk again._

_Unfortunately, that did not happen._

* * *

_The scary thing about having so many birds running amuck in the hospital is that suddenly a hypothetic expression like 'tarred and feathered' can have some very real, immediate implications._

"Did you drop that?" Janitor asked later that day.

I followed the direction of his finger to see that he was pointing at a reddish feather on the floor. "Um, no, I didn't."

"Then how do you explain how it got there?" he asked suspiciously.

I blinked. "Just a thought, but maybe a French Hen shed it?"

"Convenient coincidence, isn't it?" Janitor's eyes narrowed. "Hens in the hospital at the exact same time as _you_ loitering conspicuously next to strewn feathers."

"It actually makes perfect sense..." I trailed off.

"You expect me to believe that? What, do you get your kicks from littering and then blaming it on birds?" He took a step towards me, looming ominously. God, he was huge. "I've got my eye on you. If I collect enough fallen feathers," he poked me in the chest, "you're first in line. I may not have tar, but I do have some buckets of stale vomit which would probably work."

He and his mop stalked off, leaving me standing alone and terrified. After a moment, I picked up the feather and threw it in the trash.

Well, it couldn't be that bad. So I'd pick up the occasional stray feather I found lying around. How many could there possibly be?

Between pillow fights in the Psych ward, The Todd organizing cockfights in the surgical lounge, and what I suspected was some random sadist scattering feathers around the hospital – the answer was apparently, a _lot_. And so, instead of spending the day sitting vigil by Dr. Cox's bedside once again, I spent it running around stuffing feathers in my scrubs (and hee! Those can tickle), and missing out on all the drama, which went as follows:

Turk, becoming more and more apprehensive about his appointed mission the closer he got to the lounge, finally gathered enough courage to knock meekly on the door. In return, Dr. Cox, deeply focused on the third act of General Hospital, ignored him.

Turk stepped in. "Uh, Dr. Cox."

Silence.

"Dr. Cox?" He took a step closer to the couch, hoisting a heavy textbook about head injuries and holding it behind his back.

Still no reply.

Turk raised his eyes heavenward and murmured a small prayer. "I am sooo dead," he concluded silently, and lifted the textbook high above his head for momentum—

—and set it down a moment later. "Shit, I can't do this," he muttered, finally drawing the attention of Dr. Cox, who craned his head back and said:

"For god's sake, if you want something _say_ it, instead of making me miss the days when staff lounges were white-only."

Apparently despite the arm-jello Turk's biceps still had a considerable amount of strength in them, because his punch knocked Dr. Cox out cold.

"Oh, shit," he said again.

This time, Dr. Cox was re-admitted and re-discharged by the time I was finished with my afternoon rounds and feather collecting. Turk relayed the story for us during that night's rehearsal.

"So he's okay now?" Carla tried to confirm.

Turk flexed a muscle. "As okay as anybody who's been though The Turkinator." At Carla's glower he added in a small voice, "yeah'sokay."

"Excellent!" I cried, rubbing my hands together. "And now, my pretties, little pieces of clay for me to mold into something exciting and beautiful, my Cast du Sacre Coeur," as I'd privately dubbed our company, "the time has come for some real work to begin. Elliot, you're my props girl. Have I got a surprise for you!"

I dumped the load of feathers across her lap.

She looked like she was going to hurl. "Ohmigod, are these from real chickens? Did you pluck these? Did you _wash_ these?"

I nodded with the sort of passion that only touched those of us with the soul of an artist. "I'm thinking angel wings, Nicole Kidman on top of a giant elephant,  
_One Day I'll Fly Away—_"

_I could see it in my mind so clearly: Elliot in a Head Elf suit with wings perched on the roof of the hospital, singing in a heartfelt warble:_

_"One day I'll fly a sleigh...  
Leave the shop to Mrs. Claus  
Toys are nice and all, I think  
But reindeer always were my kink... "_

_And eureka! I had a plot!_

* * *

_By this time, four calling birds did little to disturb hospital routine, and when the five golden rings showed up, Carla, Elliot and I all called dibs, finally splitting them between us. Turk's lack of teasing caused Carla to suspect that maybe he was the hospital's Secret Santa after all, and despite him having bashed in Dr. Cox twice, he was definitely out of the doghouse._

_Meanwhile, I was still a little concerned about Dr. Cox's personality, but Dr. Kelso had sent him to some medical conference in Chicago for a few days, so I could only assume he was back to normal. Not even Dr. Kelso would release a real-life Dr. House on the unsuspecting masses._

_He returned a few days later. Sneaking up on me, as usual, from behind. _

"Dorian, would you mind explaining—"

Dr. Cox continued speaking but I didn't hear a word he said after MY NAME! MY NAME! HE SAID MY NAME!

My heart lurched in my chest and I spun around to give him a hug, only to be confronted with— crap.

"You have a cane," I blurted.

His glare was ten times more menacing than usual. "That doesn't answer my question, but if it really bothers you you can look forward to being fired very soon."

"No, I mean — I mean — I mean —" I was like a human broken record, but I was simply too freaked to continue. "I mean—"

_thwack!_

I shut up. Well, at least that cane was good for something.

"Dorian, get a grip and do your job," Dr. Cox said scathingly. "But before that, explain to me why exactly seven geese are a-swimming in the women's bathroom on the first floor."

I tried to decide whether he was joking. "Uh, what were you doing in the women's bathroom in the first place?"

He gave me a blank look. "Where else do you expect me to go?"

"I—" ...had no idea what to answer. "Is that a trick question?"

"You know what, forget it," he said with disdain, signing a chart and putting it in the rack at the Nurse's Station. "I'll go look for somebody competent around this place. In the meantime, go practice your suturing or something equally harmless."

He limped away swiftly, leaving me speechless, disappointed, and contemplating his ass, which was – unless I was imagining things, which very rarely happened – swaying just a bit more than usual.

I cleared my throat. "Nurse Roberts? Could you hand me that chart?"

"You break your arms, your legs, and your eyes this morning?"

I reached for the chart myself, dreading reading whatever name I'd find written at the bottom – either 'Dr. Cox', which would mean that he honestly did spend his time in the women's bathroom and I would have to chew that over some more, or 'Dr. House', which would mean bad news all over the place.

The name I was definitely not expecting to see was _Dr. Kerry Weaver_.


	2. Chapter 2 of 2

**My Holiday Musical** (2/2)

"Uh-oh, nope, not me," Turk stated when we reconvened at lunch, sitting at the corner table of the cafeteria. "I think my lifespan has been shortened by a couple of months just because of the near heart attacks I've had every time that man hit the floor. Woman. Whatever."

"Not me either," Elliot piped up. "I like having a woman around as boss. She was so encouraging during rounds today, I'm telling you, it's a privilege to have a one-on-one with her. She's so professional. And she's much more subtle about ogling my breasts than male doctors are."

My eyes snapped up to Elliot's face. "Hey, that's just sexist."

"What about you, Bambi?" Carla turned to me. "Any chance you'll rise up to the challenge like a man?"

Turk, Elliot and I snorted in synch.

Carla pushed her tray away and stood up. "Fine, I'll do it. You're all a bunch of sissies."

"We know that, baby!" Turk called after her.

I considered asking her to wait with Dr. Wox's "treatment" a few more days, just so I could hear him say my name a few more times, but thought better of it. At least I still had his autograph on my palm and two cane bruises as souvenirs from the last couple of days.

When Elliot got up and bused her tray, Turk leaned forward and said urgently, "I got a problem, man."

I nodded understandingly. "I've found that sometimes it helps to think about syringes, thermometers, you know, phallic-shaped objects—"

"Oh, sweet Jesus, no!" Turk closed his eyes with pain. "JD, focus with me, please. My problem is Carla. She's sure I'm the Secret Santa behind all these crazy gifts that have been showing up."

"So what? Tell her it's not you."

"I've _tried_. She doesn't believe me, thinks I'm covering it up so it can be a surprise when I reveal myself in front of the whole hospital on the last day." He put his head in his hands with frustration. "Man, she is going to _kill me_ when she finds out."

I wanted to help him. "Maybe you should just buy her something better than a partridge in a pear tree, two turtle doves, three French hens, four calling birds, five—"

"Yeah, I got it," he said, mulling it over. "Although what could possible top that?"

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Turk, last month's issue of _Cosmo_ would top that."

Turk stood up to clear his tray, shaking his head sadly. "And that, my friend, is why you haven't gotten laid in months."

"A solo! A solo in my musical!" I cried after him, but he was already gone. Eh, whatever. I wasn't sure if he was any good without the Jamaican accent anyway.

* * *

As I packed up my stuff for the day, my pager went off, Carla's bold message flashing: _HE'S OUT. SHE'S OUT. WHATEVER._

I let myself momentarily fantasize on what method she might have used to knock him out – just perhaps she and Elliot had caught him unawares with a surprise girl-on-girl make out session, and he simply collapsed, overwhelmed with lust...?

My thoughts were interrupted by another page, this time from Elliot: _WHY ARE YOU TROUBLING YOURSELF ABOUT PRONOUNS IN A PAGE?_

I closed my locker. Time for some more vigil sitting by Cox's bedside, if I could just find out where he was. Hopefully this time I could get rid of the cane before he woke up.

I headed out, and my pager beeped again. Turk. _WHAT'S WITH THE COLLECTIVE PAGING? DOES NOBODY BUT ME HAVE ANY WORK AT ALL?! _

I chuckled, starting to write _WHAT ROOM IS COX—_

"Bambi, I'm standing in front of you. That better not be another page you're writing," Carla said, hands on hips.

I hid my pager. "Of course not! Where is he?"

I practically sprinted down to room 314, and there he was, lying peacefully on the bed and sleeping like a baby with three swollen red bumps on his forehead.

I checked his pulse briefly, wiped away a little bit of drool with the corner of his blanket, sat myself down in the chair across from the bed, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And... waited...

Ann... dway...d...

...dd...

_...Dr. Cox wearing a sleazy Fosse garter belt and a blond wig, standing in a blinding spotlight, voice climbing slowly as he toys with a black leather cane: "The name on everybody's lips is gonna be..._

_Coxy!" whip _

"I'mawake I'mawake I'mawake!" I shrieked, jolting awake from my dream.

A groan came from the bed. Oh, thank god, he wasn't wearing any lace stockings.

Immediately, I was at his side.

"_Gwai..._"

I leaned closer, listening intently. "What was that?"

"_Gwaigwai lng... ddong,_" he moaned. "Oh, my head feels like it's been trampled by a herd of horses."

I finally made sense of the syllables. Gwe… Gwendolyn. He'd called me Gwendolyn.

I breathed out in relief. My Cox was back.

* * *

Slightly disoriented and complaining of headaches, Dr. Cox went back to sleep, and I went home myself, exhausted from another crazy week at the hospital. To make sure I was still on his good side, I left him a note recommending he _did_ take a couple of days off, because though Turk and Carla had been the ones doing the actual violence, obviously the blame would somehow end up falling on me.

I spent my day off honing my script and practicing my vocal scales ("_mi_-mi-MI-_MI_-MI-mi-_mi_..."), calling the handyman to replace all the windows in the apartment due to collateral damage of me practicing my vocal scales, and wrapping all my Christmas gifts in flowery, scented tissue paper with pretty bows on top.

I showed up at work Monday morning with a smile on my face, not hampered by the fact that I was trailing a group of nine gorgeous belly dancers who actually tinkled when they walked. Oh, yes, I had a spring in my step this morning. (Not real springs, of course, because then _my boots would have to have secret Inspector Gadget-like spring compartments and they'd probably go off at all the wrong moments — I'd be in the middle of a rectal examination, saying, "just hold still now, Mr Hul—" boioioing!, and my head would crash through the ceiling._)

"Morning, JD!" Ted sang as I passed him by.

"Morning, JD," Elliot said, waving.

"Morning, sport!" Dr. Kelso twinkled.

"Die, bum," Janitor growled, mopping the floor menacingly.

"Morning, JD," Dr. Cox beamed, blushing slightly as a dancing lady pinched his ass.

Yes, the world was good today, I thought, entering the staff lounge and hanging my coat in my locker.

Then I backtracked one mental minute, threw myself against the door and screamed.

* * *

_Jordan Sullivan._

_Jordan Sullivan is the coldest, most intimidating, most impressive woman I have ever had the dubious pleasure of knowing. I say 'dubious' because sometimes she can be surprisingly warm, and obviously there's a certain openness in her that can only be found in the type of girl who agrees to give a chance to a guy named Cox — but on other, unfortunately more frequent times, she can make you want to unscrew your ears and hide them in a box until she goes away, or else wear a surgical mask when speaking to her to make sure you don't inhale, because her words are just that poisonous._

Jordan's heels clicked steadily on the floor like a clock relentlessly ticking towards my execution.

My scrubs were just the same shade of blue as the wall in the corridor, maybe if I _really_ pulled my stomach in—

Too late. She was here.

"Village idiot," she greeted me.

"Hi, Jordan," I said awkwardly, trying to decide the best way to appease her. "You look... kind of maddish. May I offer you this golden ring?"

_It has the power to rule them all,_ I wanted to say, but Jordan didn't look like she was in the mood to appreciate the gesture.

"Let me think." She scratched her head. "I just spent two weeks at my parents' house in Wisconsin, which was almost as relaxing as being chewed on by a rabid dog. My not-husband barely returned any of my calls, and every time he did he sounded like a pod-jerk instead of like my regular jerk, and when I finally arrived home, kid-free for two more days until my parents fly him here, I discovered him preferring to read an old medical text instead of having sex. And, oh yeah, mumbling in Chinese. So no, I don't think I'll have that cheap plastic ring, but I will have Perry back, thank you."

_Chinese?_ What the hell could it be this time?

"Don't worry about it," I assured Jordan. "We're on it. We'll have him fixed in no t—uh, better make it a couple of days."

But Jordan did not have any mere glare, but apparently possessed the ability to transform her eyes into blowtorches, so I quickly amended that to, "Calling the team now."

I paged the others for the umpteenth time, and told them to meet me in our rehearsal room, which was an old abandoned lounge too close to the morgue for anyone to interrupt. To my chagrin, Jordan followed close behind, monitoring my every move.

In fact, I was so preoccupied with shaking off the itch in the spot I was sure she was staring at on my back, that I didn't see Dr. Cox until I bumped into him.

"Sorry," I said automatically.

"Watch where you're going," he replied sternly. "This is a hospital, I could have been a patient."

"Oh, for god's sake," I heard Jordan mutter impatiently behind me.

I took a good look at him. He looked like Dr. Cox, except crisper somehow, more eager than usual, yet you could sense a touch of steel inside. He was clean-shaven, his hair was combed and parted to one side, his black pants had ironed seams, and...

...and he was carrying a cane.

"But how?" I asked aloud, desperation seeping into my voice. "How? Why? What?" I was on my way to a mental breakdown. "_Who_ are you?"

Dr. Cox frowned. "Um, Simon Tam. JD, are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"Simon Tam," I repeated helplessly "Of course you are. _Will there be no end to this?_"

"What are you talking about?"

I threw out the only accusation that seemed to explain it all. "You're just messing with all of us, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You can't be Simon Tam! Simon doesn't even have a cane!"

His face darkened. "This isn't a cane, it's a _gentleman's_ walking stick."

"Which you're only carrying around so you can have an excuse to hit us!"

He shoved the cane in front of my face threateningly, and in his spark of anger I recognized a smidgen of the old Dr. Cox, and instantly knew two things: one, that there was still hope to get him back, and two, that he would not hesitate to follow through on whatever threat he was about to voice.

"I am Simon Tam," he growled, "This is my fashionable walking stick, and if you want proof I've got it I'd be happy to stick it where the sun don't—"

"Shiny!" I squeaked, backing off.

"Just keep walking," Jordan snapped at me. "And you, China-boy, go floss your teeth or something, I think you missed a spot on your third time this morning."

And then I was being pushed forward by Jordan, and by the time we got to the rehearsal room the others were already there.

"Firefly," Carla said almost immediately. "He called me _mei mei_."

Turk's and Jordan's eyes narrowed simultaneously. "Did he?" Jordan said darkly.

"I loved that show," Elliot sighed. "So sad it got canceled."

"Okay, everybody, focus," I said, speaking in my Awesome Director Tone, which I'd been practicing in front of the mirror. It got their attention. "As much as it hurts me to say, we must have gotten our diagnosis wrong. There has to be an underlying cause to Dr. Cox's madness other than the brain-jiggle theory." I leaned forward. "Time for a brainstorming session, people. What caused this?"

_And then something almost magical happened._

_Every good musical needs its climax. _

_This is how it went:_

_**Elliot**: I've got a theory  
Cox is a demon!  
His teeth are creepy and he's always been — well, "not calm"_

_**Turk**: I've got a theory  
That JD's dreaming  
And we're all stuck inside his wacky TV sitcom_

_**Carla**: I've got a theory we should work this out  
**All**: It's scary working here with that cane flinging all about_

_**Turk**: It could be nurses  
Some nasty nurses  
cowers under Carla's glare  
But that's ridiculous  
'cause nurses they are lovely creatures  
With high IQs  
And pink scrubs  
And surgeons suck  
Don't throw me out of bed, please_

_**Me**: I've got a theory  
It could be pennies_

_crickets_

_**Turk**: (quietly) Dude, you've gotta let it—_

_In an incredibly cool move I leap onstage  
**Me**: Pennies aren't as innocent as everyone supposes!  
They're small and round and fit perfectly in your nostrils!  
And what's with Abie Lincoln!  
How do you know he was so honest anyway?  
Pennies, pennies it must be pennies!  
Or maybe Kelso?_

_**Jordan**: I think you guys should figure this out fast  
The more it takes, the longer I will make your suffering last_

_**Me**: I've got a theory  
He could be brainwa-ashed  
I hop off the stage sadly  
What can we do if he's been brainwashed?  
His inner character insane, lost  
**Carla**: Perhaps he's drugged  
**Elliot**: Or hypnotized  
**Me**: Who knows who done?  
**Turk**: It might be spies!_

_**All**: What if the cane will stay forever?  
He'll beat the crap from us with pleasure  
**Carla**: We've gotta get  
The old Cox back  
**Elliot**: He's better than  
**Turk joins her**: This maniac…_

_**All**: Let's hope we figure out the trigger  
(**Me**: his lovely figure!)  
Else he'll be after us with rigor  
(**Me**: how I miss his vigor…)  
There's nothing we can't deal with_

_**Me**: Except for pennies..._

* * *

The door opened and Janitor's head popped in. "Did someone say pennies?"

"No," I said quickly.

"Oh." He shrugged. "Okay. _Zài jiàn_."

He turned away, but stopped at our collective shout of: "_Wait!_"

Janitor turned back, raising his eyebrows. "What?"

"What did you just say?" I asked.

"_Zài jiàn_. It's Chinese for goodbye."

"You... know Chinese."

"Just a bit," he said nonchalantly. "Picked it up from my show."

Elliot stepped in. "That wouldn't happen to be Firefly, would it?"

His eyes brightened. "You're a Browncoat too?"

"Oh my god, yes!" she squealed. "Isn't it brilliant? Don't you wish sometimes you could just hop on a Firefly and—"

"Elliot!" I interjected. "Concentrate, please."

She blushed. "Sorry. Um, so, have you been watching the show recently or anything...?"

He looked like he was processing the strange question. "Yeah, couple of days ago. I usually find a quiet room and watch it on my portable TV over lunch break."

"You have a portable TV?" I blurted.

His eyes snapped to mine. "Yeah. I do. You got a problem with that? …Oh, I get it," he continued. "Janitors aren't supposed to have portable TVs. Only doctors have them. Janitors don't have walkmans either. In fact, we've only recently discovered indoor plumbing, which is fortunate, because it makes our job that much easier."

"Okay, easy there," Elliot said. "Have you been taking your lunch breaks in Dr. Cox's room in the past week? And watching any other shows?"

Janitor gave me another hostile glance, and turned back to Elliot. "Yeah," he said, his tone back to normal. "Cox never snores."

Case solved.

"Well, there we have it," Turk concluded. "He's been brainwashed. Now what?"

I contemplated it for a moment, and had an idea.

* * *

_Despite mocking our methodology and saying we "weren't even doctors, just a very bad circus act", Jordan couldn't hide her delight at being told to smack Dr. Cox upside the head for his own good. With a frightening glint in her eye and what looked like expertise in some form of martial arts, she grabbed his cane in one smooth move and very coldly struck a precise blow. From behind._

_That is one cold woman._

I peered through the small window in the door to Dr. Cox's room, watching Jordan sprawled on the same chair I had occupied twice during the past nine days.

"Stop hogging the sheets, you miserable jerk," she was saying in a dull tone. "Cut your hair, you look like a monkey," and, "you know, they only tell you 'it's not how big it is, but how you use it' if you actually know how to use it. Otherwise, it's just small."

She lifted her head and noticed me, looking resentful, but gestured for me to come in. I closed the door behind me quietly.

"How are you holding up?" I asked.

She heaved a frustrated sigh. "I've been at this for hours. It's not that I don't enjoy snarking at him, but it's pretty boring when he isn't awake."

I looked down at Dr. Cox, noticing that his expression was slightly more pained than it had been previously. "Keep it up," I told her. "I think it's working."

"Do you want to give it a try?"

I looked at her with surprise. "Me? But I'm never mean to him."

The corner of Jordan's mouth twitched sardonically. "Contrary to popular opinion, Perry doesn't live off pure bitterness. If you really want to recreate a semblance of normality here, you might want someone to balance me out... "

I hesitated, wanting to make sure I had her permission to intrude on what should naturally have been a private moment, and she me gave a small nod.

I dragged another chair to Dr. Cox's bedside and sat down. "Hi, Dr. Cox," I said cheerfully. "I've really missed you this week. I don't know if you'll remember anything that happened, but just so you know, I hold no hard feelings about the cane thwacking. I know you weren't yourself, and you would never have knowingly done that to me on purpose."

I smiled brightly at Jordan, who rolled her eyes. "Easy on the optimism," she said, "We don't want him brainwashed into you."

"Anyway, lots of things have been happening, the most important of which is my musical! I just know you're going to love it, I wrote all these songs and the costumes are darling..."

I continued with a loose monologue, and every now and then Jordan inserted a fond "Bastard", briefly smoothing his hair or adjusting his blanket. We both stayed into the night.

Around dawn, Dr. Cox finally stirred. He blinked once, blearily staring at Jordan's face.

"Wake up," she said, slapping his cheek lightly.

"Oh, god," he groaned. "Am I in hell? I _knew_ you were the one they sent out on the Welcome Wagon..."

"It's him," Jordan stated with certainty, standing up. "I'd know that look of desperate misery anywhere. I'm going to get some coffee, call only if you want me to spill some on you."

Paying no attention to her leaving, I focused entirely on the wincing man lying on the bed. "Dr... Cox?" I ventured hopefully.

"Let me phrase this in simple terms for you. My head feels like it's been used as a basketball prop in a movie about kids playing basketball, then kicking the ball around for a while, puncturing it on jagged rocks, letting the Rottweiler play with it, having the entire cast of Lord of the Dance tapdance on top of it, and finally running it over with a Monster Truck, so Newbie, unless it's something direly urgent, and by that I mean there is _nothing_ in our dimension of existence that currently falls into that category, please leave me alone."

Something in me melted.

"It's great to have you back," I grinned, overjoyed. "I could write a song about it."

Dr. Cox grunted. "I wrote a song for you."

"Really?" I squeaked.

"Yes, it goes like this:

_"Roses are red, violets are blue,   
Stop being so damn pathetic." _

I sighed contentedly. Oh, yes. He was back.

* * *

_Only one last mystery remained unresolved._

Turk rapped softly on the door of Dr. Kelso's office. "Dr. Kelso? You asked to see me?"

"Come in," came the reply.

Behind the closed door, Dr. Kelso assessed Turk with a speculative gaze. "I've been hearing rumors about you, sonny," he said.

Turk's eyes flashed. "Not that it's anybody's business, but for the _millionth_ time, JD and I aren't—"

"Whoa, horsey. I was referring to the mysterious origin of objects from one partridge in a pear tree to, what is it now? Eleven piping pipers?"

"Oh. Those." Turk looked down, shuffling his feet. "Sir, can I be honest?"

Dr. Kelso smiled like he knew something that Turk didn't. "Of course you can."

Turk sighed. "I seriously have no idea where the gifts started coming from, but once my crazy girlfriend got it in her head that they were from me, she wouldn't accept a denial, and finally I just started playing along, because at least that way I can stay on her good side until Christmas. Whenever the Secret Santa reveals himself, I'm toast, because she's gonna find out."

To Turk's surprise, Dr. Kelso didn't look like he had even listened. "Tell you what," he said, flipping through a personnel file. "Since you're the culprit for this entire mess, this is a disciplinary note that's going in your file," – he waved the file around – "and you better keep yourself out of trouble from now on, and be thankful that I'm not putting you on probation. I will not have such disorder in this hospital."

Turk just stood in his place, astonished. "But I just said – but what about the real  
culprit?"

"As far as I'm concerned, that's you." Turk opened his mouth to reply, but Dr. Kelso cut him off before he started. "I have an interest in keeping the true identity of the Secret Santa secret, and you're being given a golden opportunity to take credit for the gifts here, son. Are you sure you want to pass that up?"

Turk closed his mouth. "I'm… sorry for all the… trouble I caused," he said at last.

"That's a good boy," Dr. Kelso said, clasping his hands together with self-satisfaction. "Run along, now."

Before Turk left, he had to know just one more thing. "Dr. Kelso."

Kelso looked up.

"The musical," Turk posed the question. "Why would you punish all of us for something you knew none of us did?"

Dr. Kelso peered at him intently over the top of his glasses. "Dr. Turk, I do not consider putting on a Christmas play for the Pediatrics Ward a form of punishment."

And thinking about it, Turk realized he was right. "Yeah," he nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess a little holiday cheer never hurt anybody. And you know what? I'd even go as far as to say that all the chickens and the dancers and the pipers, well, at least they spread a little cheer in the hosp—" Turk halted in mid-sentence, his eyes widening with realization.

Dr. Kelso didn't look amused, although his eyes did have a sort of enigmatic gleam to them. "If I were you, I wouldn't be quick to make wild suggestions about any members of the hospital's administration perpetrating any foolish acts just to spread some holiday cheer. Like I said, Dr. Turk, this would be the time for you to run along."

* * *

_When your big moment finally arrives..._

"Okay, the show's supposed to start in half an hour, if somebody doesn't get rid of these twelve drummers I'm bringing out the Midazolam."

_And all you want is for things to just go right..._

"Who let out the goddamn chickens? They're running all over the stage!"

"Who let the chickens out? (Who? Who? Who? Who)—"

"So not the time, Teds."

_And all you can think about is that your life is pretty much insane…_

"Has anyone seen Rowdy? I have the nose and the antlers, but he's just disappeared... I _hate_ it when he runs off like that..."

_In the midst of all the chaos, you can find yourself surprised._

I was sitting in the parking lot in what could technically be described as a fetal position, although in my Elf costume I probably looked very much unlike a fetus, or at least unlike a human one. My head was in my hands, and I was starting to think that maybe indoors would have been a better place to have a breakdown, because indoors didn't have any snow.

"Shouldn't you be inside?"

Dr. Cox's voice sounded gravelly out in the cold, through my green Elfish earmuffs.

"I've been thinking about that," I replied, shivering. "But I've just discovered I have insurmountable stage fright, and also I think my legs are frozen."

"I hope you're not expecting me to help you up," he groused.

"No," I said in a small voice. After a moment he rolled his eyes and stuck out a hand. I clasped it, stiffly rising to my feet just because I didn't want to turn him down.

"I'm not gonna be your shrink here," he notified me, looking annoyed.

"I know," I almost whispered.

Snow was beginning to fall, silently settling on the frozen sidewalk. Dr Cox sighed. "Leaping lords, Newbie, you're going to do fine. Do you want to know how I know that?"

I nodded, the tiny bell on my cap tinkling.

"Because the bunch of you dealt with my case in such an abhorrently crappy way that I know you _must_ have been spending all of your energies somewhere else. It's called the First Law of Talent Conservation, right up there with Newton in the science books."

As typically crudely as he had phrased it, I knew that deep down he meant well, and wanted to believe him.

"Now come on," he said, breathing out steam, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Get your ass in there and make those kids smile."

I moved my legs experimentally and found they had thawed enough for walking. "I really hope they do," I said, moving towards the hospital.

"They will," he assured me, following behind. "Even if you weren't such a laughingly easy, nay, _unavoidable_, target to laugh at, you have two things working for you that cannot fail: songs, and a dog. The kids'll love 'em. I speak from experience."

"You sing to Jack?"

"Don't make me hit you."

"Okay."

As I reached the hospital, I lingered by the entrance. Dr. Cox paused, noticed the mistletoe hanging from the doorframe, and rolled his eyes with exasperation. "Oh, for—"

He kissed his fingers like an Italian gangster and smacked me on the side of my head, continuing to walk forward, muttering, "List of things to do at home, one, remember not to throw out cane, two, hone tip of cane to sharp point, three, make list of individuals to stab…"

I allowed myself a giggle.

* * *

In the Pediatrics Ward, Elliot was rounding up the last of the geese; backstage, Carla, in a Mrs. Claus suit, fingered her cheap plastic golden ring and kissed Santa Turk on the cheek; Ted and the Tedettes were warming up the stage with acapella Christmas carols accompanied by twelve drummers, to Dr. Kelso's satisfaction; Jordan was bouncing little baby Jack on her lap, while Dr. Cox watched silently, leaning against the door; and when I stepped into the room, a green-clad Head Elf soggy from the snow, I tripped over a carelessly placed mop and slid across the room, crashing into a makeshift pen of chickens made from Sacred Heart laundry bins and sheets, creating a confused, squawky shower of feathers that drifted between the squealing children.

_Sometimes I think that Sacred Heart Hospital is not an entirely sane place to be._

_The truth is that sometimes, sanity is overrated._

**Epilogue:**

When night fell, a lone figure stood on the chilly roof, watching the stars through a clear winter sky.

"Doctors get a solo," he grumbled to himself. "Board member gets a solo. Even the lawyer gets a solo. But does the janitor get a solo? No…"

He gripped the handle of the broom he was leaning on, and slowly began to clear the snow around the helicopter landing pad. After a while, he started humming. "_Chim-chiminey, chim-chiminey, chim-chim-cher-ee..._"

A new voice joined him. "_When you're with a sweep, you're in glad company..._"

He looked up, surprised, and she walked up to him, uncharacteristically self assured. "You can't stop the signal," she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."

Being a sweep, he reflected, sometimes, 'twas lucky indeed.

* * *

_Mandarin translations:_

_Gwai-gwai long duh dong ( Gwendolyn) _- what the hell?  
_Mei mei_ - little sister, term of endearment

**Last notes:** The "12 Days of Christmas" plotline was inspired by one of Michelle Hiley's ER fics of yore, which aren't posted anywhere anymore as far as I searched, but credit should be given where due. And - just for the record – I wrote this before I heard of the two season 6 episodes that use the same themes :-)


End file.
